Mine and yours
Apr. 7th, 2008 04:00 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
maculategiraffeAs requested by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
morgan_cian: "in reading the cutscene from Bran, I stated how much I like the mine/yours dialogue, would you write a brief scene with Holden and one of the boys with that type of dialogue, it could just be a paragraph and I'm rooting for you to go with Jer..."
(It, er, turned into a bit more than a paragraph. But I did go with Jer.)
Jer, sitting on the floor by Holden's desk with Holden's fingers sifting through his hair, finished the chapter in his book, put in the bookmark, and started to get up. But Holden didn't let his head slide from under the caressing hand; instead the slim fingers tightened suddenly to a fist, jerking Jer's head back hard enough to make him suck in his breath audibly. Yves glanced up from his own book, and then back down; Bran, who was having a quiet conversation with the current trainee, a tall, somewhat awkward fifteen-year-old girl with terrible posture, didn't look around at all, and neither did Alix and Greta, who were pretty thoroughly engrossed in each other.
Holden had been in a weird mood all evening, eyeing Jer up and down and ordering him tersely to sit at his feet after dinner. Jer had figured from the predatory gleam in his master's eye and the cool note of command in his voice that he'd probably get dragged upstairs and fucked hard, maybe hit around a little first, before long-- which was fine by Jer. Holden was a good lover, and if he hit hard, he made up for it by his gentleness and indulgence when his aggression was sated. And it was nice to feel wanted.
But Holden had seemed content to play with Jer's hair and ears and the nape of his neck and let Jer read his book for the past couple of hours. Now the hand in his hair was suddenly painful, rough enough to kick Jer's heartbeat up a notch, though with fear or with excitement, he wasn't sure.
Either-- in any case-- was silly. Either was something he should be long over by now. Wasn't much Holden could do to him that hadn't been done before-- certainly not much Holden would do, not to an old friend.
But Holden hadn't been eyeing him like an old friend, and he definitely wasn't touching him like a friend now. He was gripping him like a kid with a favorite toy, and Jer felt suddenly very young and awkward himself as his master hauled him up by his hair. Jer scrambled for a foothold, a handhold, losing his grip on his book, trying not to be afraid. Because there was nothing to be afraid of.
He was half in his master's lap now, in an awkward, all-elbows pose, and his master's breath was hot in his ear before his voice rasped, "Upstairs. On your bed. I want you naked-- and--" Holden licked his ear, a long, lazy, wet stroke-- "pretty. Twenty minutes."
Jer scrambled to his feet, regaining his well-trained grace halfway up. At least Holden hadn't grabbed his cock or stuck anything up his ass on the spot. It seemed like the kind of thing he might do in his current mood, and while Yves didn't mind it and Bran seemed to downright enjoy it, among the many things Jer hated that the master had every right to do was being made a spectacle of.
His eye hit the clock on his way out the door. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to be-- pretty?
Naked was simple enough, and so was upstairs-on-your-bed. Jer was both in a matter of seconds. But the master also wanted him pretty, which was a bit of a poser. Jer knew he wasn't pretty, not any more-- hard to live in the same house as Bran and not know that, even if there hadn't been the fact that he was in this house at all because his skin wasn't smooth and sleek any more, his muscles were losing definition, his nipples weren't pert and rosy, his hair was coarse and graying, his face-- well. Jer could try to avoid mirrors, but you couldn't help seeing, sometimes. And Bran didn't do it on purpose, of course he didn't, but when the same mirror caught both their reflections, Jer didn't care how sweet and lovable and generally all-around lost-puppy-adorable Bran was, he still wanted to fucking claw the little dreamboat's face off.
He couldn't decide if it made it worse or better, either, the way Holden looked at him. At first he'd thought Holden just didn't care if he was pretty or not, liked him enough to put up with him anyway, and then there was Holden's urge to stick his cock in anything he cared about if it looked like it was making any kind of sudden move. But that didn't account for the way Holden would cup Jer's face in his hands and gaze and gaze, stroke his sunken cheeks, kiss his lined forehead, staring into his crows-footed eyes like they were the only eyes in the world. It wasn't that he didn't care how Jer looked, but he looked and he saw-- something else, Jer guessed. Something a master wouldn't bother to see, something friendship wouldn't need to, even though Holden was his master and his friend, both.
Emphatically his master, tonight, if Jer was any good at reading an owner's moods-- or Holden's moods, which hadn't always been the same thing. And Jer could be good, and submissive, and naked, if that was what his master wanted. But pretty-- he didn't know about pretty.
Holden had spoken the word as if it were a code between them, one Jer would understand, and he'd be disappointed if Jer didn't comply-- and in Holden's current mood, Jer didn't want to disappoint him, not only because he seemed inclined to play rough and Jer didn't want to get hurt worse than he had to, but also because-- well, frankly, because Holden in his current mood was hot, and Jer wanted to enjoy it, draw it out, play the good slave to Holden's cool, calculating, demanding master.
Play the good slave, Jer thought, and he had it back, the memory, what Holden must mean.
"All these cute little tricks of yours," he'd said in disgust-- this was, oh, months ago, more than half a year-- how close to a year, now?-- as Jer lay on his stomach, burning with shame and rage, thinking what utter and pure hell it was belonging to an ex-slave, how it was even worse belonging to someone who actually gave a shit whether you were faking it or not, and wondering whether it wouldn't have been better to have killed himself after all and ended an honorable career as a lying whore rather than suffer this bizarre afterlife populated by ghosts of his past and impossible demands from master-Holden that he tell me what you want, that he look me in the eye, that he don't move like that unless you mean it. "Pretty moves, pretty moans, pretty lies-- none of it's real, is it?"
"It's not like I've got pretty to give for real, master," Jer had snarled back.
"Then give me ugly." Holden had yanked him over on his back, stared into his narrowed eyes. "I can take it."
And he had. Taken it. He pushed Jer into snarling at him, and he snarled back, not like displeasing the master but like pissing off your best friend; he let Jer punch him, too, and he punched back, and it wasn't a punishment, it was a fucking fistfight, and Jer could let himself go. Could let himself get fucked when he lost, making ugly sounds of pain and satisfaction, knowing Holden would have been making sounds just as thick and rough if Jer had been the one to get him down. Could say shit to Holden when Holden grabbed him, laid long stinging scratches down his back or bit him hard enough to bruise, could grunt like the animals they were and Holden didn't care, loved it, loved it all. Loved him, Jer. He really did.
And now, tonight-- he wanted pretty.
Well. Jer grinned, suddenly, to himself. Okay, then. Couldn't teach an old dog new tricks, maybe-- but he didn't forget his old ones, either.
Jer reached in the drawer beside the bed and got out the oil Holden used for lube. It was good stuff, better than what Argounov used, which just went to show-- well, there was probably some kind of proverb about what it went to show, something slightly less blunt than the fucked know better than the fuckers which lube is best. If Argounov had ever let Jer top-- well, then he wouldn't have been Argounov, would he?
This rare philosophical digression-- Yves must be contagious-- hadn't stopped Jer from making the most of his vanishing twenty minutes; he was rubbing the oil around first on his cock, then on his nipples, and finally, liberally, on his fingers. He wrapped a hand around his cock, splayed the fingers of his other hand over his chest, teasing his nipples to nubs as he stroked himself very, very gently. Too hard and he wouldn't last when his master did whatever he wanted to do, wouldn't catch his breath, responsive to every touch, every whisper; he'd be too impatient. He needed his cock awake, was all, awake and waiting, gleaming, ready, pretty. He could feel the light flush creeping across his cheeks, the gentle languor spreading through his limbs, as he waited. Pretty was a mindset. As long as he didn't have a mirror, he could stay there. As long as Holden didn't laugh when he saw him.
It didn't seem like twenty minutes-- but he wasn't watching the clock all that closely, was watching the doorway, when Holden appeared in it, dark against the light from the hallway. He closed the door behind him, looking Jer up and down with a cool, appraising eye-- appraising, and approving.
"Good," he said, and Jer smiled, suddenly, the arrogant answering smile he used to dare give Argounov, back when his skin fit just right, back when he was twenty, thirty even, the best lay his master had ever had and they both knew it even if Argounov would never say it.
Holden prowled towards the bed, taking his time, and Jer rolled over to watch him, still smiling audaciously.
"Pretty enough, master?" he asked with a show of humility-- lies, pretty lies, it wasn't even a question-- and Holden, smiling too now, narrowed his eyes and nodded, once.
"Prep yourself for me," he ordered, not needing to add make it look good, and Jer picked the lube back up, pulled up his legs, and slid a finger in, letting his eyes flutter halfway closed, his lips part like a virgin boy's, not caring how stupid it looked on a worn-out whore. Because he was watching his master's face, and it didn't look stupid, not at all. Added another finger, fucking himself slowly, breathing in, and then out, his cock and spine wide awake and sparking, his half-lidded eyes on his master's.
"Good," said Holden again.
Another finger, and as he stretched himself out he tilted his head back, baring his throat, and moaned, at Holden, a pretty, performing moan. Holden gave him back a soft, growling purr of satisfaction.
"You look," he said, in the same throaty register, "good enough to eat."
"How about good enough to fuck?" Jer drawled. Holden laughed, quietly, coming closer to the bed, and Jer's heartrate kicked into overdrive as one slender, strong hand circled his throat, the other splaying itself out between his shoulder blades, laying him gently down on his back.
"Maybe," he said, drawing his nails lightly up the length of Jer's cock. "Maybe I'll fuck my pretty boy. Or maybe not. Maybe I'd rather keep watching. Watch you keep yourself on edge for me, fuck your fist, cry and beg me to come."
"As it please my master," said Jer, and tonight that didn't mean do whatever the fuck you're going to do to me, it's not like I can stop you, and even if it also didn't quite mean-- as it probably would have on Bran's lips-- submission to my master's divine will is my highest good, it was right, the right thing to say right now. Part of the show. Such pretty words.
Holden slid the fingers of one hand into Jer's hair, the other still toying delicately with his cock.
"My pretty boy," he said, and Jer's eyes closed altogether without even thinking about it as he said, pat as a retired actor revisiting the role that had made him great, "Your boy, master, pretty-- pretty just for you."
"That's right." Holden's thumb on his nipple, kneading gently, the other hand playing down between Jer's legs, towards his slicked hole. "My pretty whore."
Jer's eyes snapped open again, and he stared up at Holden for signs of-- what? Mockery? A trap? Holden hated when Jer called himself a whore-- but he hated all this too, Jer's best performances, his hard-earned skill set, and here he was, eyes narrowed again, his fingers-- oh, Thor fucking thunder-fist-- pushing inside Jer, twisting and fucking him, probing and rubbing up against his sweet spot while the other hand fisted his hair and Holden said softly, "My beautiful whore. Say it."
"Yours," Jer gasped, "master-- master, your whore, your slut--"
"My beautiful slut," Holden insisted, and half his fingers were still in Jer's hair but the others were gone from inside him and Holden was kneeling between his legs, rubbing at his own cock with the oil.
"Master's," Jer stalled, and then, because it was all part of the game, because Holden's bizarre truth fetish was on hold and he was allowed to lie tonight, "master's-- your beautiful slut, your-- fuck!" he moaned as Holden's cock slid into him, "fuck me, master, fuck your-- your pretty fucktoy--"
"My beautiful Jer," Holden said, one emphatic drawn-out word for each long, agonizingly slow stroke of his cock inside Jer, "my love--"
"Oh, gods, master," said Jer, and it wasn't a fucking game any more if it ever had been, "yours, please, no, don't stop--" he almost screamed as the strokes slowed even further.
"My what?" Holden asked calmly.
"Your-- your-- your--" Jer tried to thrust his hips back against the maddeningly still pelvis. "Your love-- please, your beautiful, your whore, so beautiful for you, please--"
"So beautiful for me." Holden sounded so thoroughly satisfied as his thrusts picked up speed again that Jer could have laughed if he hadn't been so close to crying, or coming, one of the two, or both. Holden quit talking then, and he let Jer quit talking, too, which was a relief because all Jer could really think about was Holden's cock and his hands, the master's hands and his eyes on Jer, and that wasn't kindness or pity or even friendship in his eyes, and if he'd had to find a word for it right then... but he didn't. Just had to see.
morgan_cian: "in reading the cutscene from Bran, I stated how much I like the mine/yours dialogue, would you write a brief scene with Holden and one of the boys with that type of dialogue, it could just be a paragraph and I'm rooting for you to go with Jer..."(It, er, turned into a bit more than a paragraph. But I did go with Jer.)
Jer, sitting on the floor by Holden's desk with Holden's fingers sifting through his hair, finished the chapter in his book, put in the bookmark, and started to get up. But Holden didn't let his head slide from under the caressing hand; instead the slim fingers tightened suddenly to a fist, jerking Jer's head back hard enough to make him suck in his breath audibly. Yves glanced up from his own book, and then back down; Bran, who was having a quiet conversation with the current trainee, a tall, somewhat awkward fifteen-year-old girl with terrible posture, didn't look around at all, and neither did Alix and Greta, who were pretty thoroughly engrossed in each other.
Holden had been in a weird mood all evening, eyeing Jer up and down and ordering him tersely to sit at his feet after dinner. Jer had figured from the predatory gleam in his master's eye and the cool note of command in his voice that he'd probably get dragged upstairs and fucked hard, maybe hit around a little first, before long-- which was fine by Jer. Holden was a good lover, and if he hit hard, he made up for it by his gentleness and indulgence when his aggression was sated. And it was nice to feel wanted.
But Holden had seemed content to play with Jer's hair and ears and the nape of his neck and let Jer read his book for the past couple of hours. Now the hand in his hair was suddenly painful, rough enough to kick Jer's heartbeat up a notch, though with fear or with excitement, he wasn't sure.
Either-- in any case-- was silly. Either was something he should be long over by now. Wasn't much Holden could do to him that hadn't been done before-- certainly not much Holden would do, not to an old friend.
But Holden hadn't been eyeing him like an old friend, and he definitely wasn't touching him like a friend now. He was gripping him like a kid with a favorite toy, and Jer felt suddenly very young and awkward himself as his master hauled him up by his hair. Jer scrambled for a foothold, a handhold, losing his grip on his book, trying not to be afraid. Because there was nothing to be afraid of.
He was half in his master's lap now, in an awkward, all-elbows pose, and his master's breath was hot in his ear before his voice rasped, "Upstairs. On your bed. I want you naked-- and--" Holden licked his ear, a long, lazy, wet stroke-- "pretty. Twenty minutes."
Jer scrambled to his feet, regaining his well-trained grace halfway up. At least Holden hadn't grabbed his cock or stuck anything up his ass on the spot. It seemed like the kind of thing he might do in his current mood, and while Yves didn't mind it and Bran seemed to downright enjoy it, among the many things Jer hated that the master had every right to do was being made a spectacle of.
His eye hit the clock on his way out the door. Twenty minutes. Twenty minutes to be-- pretty?
Naked was simple enough, and so was upstairs-on-your-bed. Jer was both in a matter of seconds. But the master also wanted him pretty, which was a bit of a poser. Jer knew he wasn't pretty, not any more-- hard to live in the same house as Bran and not know that, even if there hadn't been the fact that he was in this house at all because his skin wasn't smooth and sleek any more, his muscles were losing definition, his nipples weren't pert and rosy, his hair was coarse and graying, his face-- well. Jer could try to avoid mirrors, but you couldn't help seeing, sometimes. And Bran didn't do it on purpose, of course he didn't, but when the same mirror caught both their reflections, Jer didn't care how sweet and lovable and generally all-around lost-puppy-adorable Bran was, he still wanted to fucking claw the little dreamboat's face off.
He couldn't decide if it made it worse or better, either, the way Holden looked at him. At first he'd thought Holden just didn't care if he was pretty or not, liked him enough to put up with him anyway, and then there was Holden's urge to stick his cock in anything he cared about if it looked like it was making any kind of sudden move. But that didn't account for the way Holden would cup Jer's face in his hands and gaze and gaze, stroke his sunken cheeks, kiss his lined forehead, staring into his crows-footed eyes like they were the only eyes in the world. It wasn't that he didn't care how Jer looked, but he looked and he saw-- something else, Jer guessed. Something a master wouldn't bother to see, something friendship wouldn't need to, even though Holden was his master and his friend, both.
Emphatically his master, tonight, if Jer was any good at reading an owner's moods-- or Holden's moods, which hadn't always been the same thing. And Jer could be good, and submissive, and naked, if that was what his master wanted. But pretty-- he didn't know about pretty.
Holden had spoken the word as if it were a code between them, one Jer would understand, and he'd be disappointed if Jer didn't comply-- and in Holden's current mood, Jer didn't want to disappoint him, not only because he seemed inclined to play rough and Jer didn't want to get hurt worse than he had to, but also because-- well, frankly, because Holden in his current mood was hot, and Jer wanted to enjoy it, draw it out, play the good slave to Holden's cool, calculating, demanding master.
Play the good slave, Jer thought, and he had it back, the memory, what Holden must mean.
"All these cute little tricks of yours," he'd said in disgust-- this was, oh, months ago, more than half a year-- how close to a year, now?-- as Jer lay on his stomach, burning with shame and rage, thinking what utter and pure hell it was belonging to an ex-slave, how it was even worse belonging to someone who actually gave a shit whether you were faking it or not, and wondering whether it wouldn't have been better to have killed himself after all and ended an honorable career as a lying whore rather than suffer this bizarre afterlife populated by ghosts of his past and impossible demands from master-Holden that he tell me what you want, that he look me in the eye, that he don't move like that unless you mean it. "Pretty moves, pretty moans, pretty lies-- none of it's real, is it?"
"It's not like I've got pretty to give for real, master," Jer had snarled back.
"Then give me ugly." Holden had yanked him over on his back, stared into his narrowed eyes. "I can take it."
And he had. Taken it. He pushed Jer into snarling at him, and he snarled back, not like displeasing the master but like pissing off your best friend; he let Jer punch him, too, and he punched back, and it wasn't a punishment, it was a fucking fistfight, and Jer could let himself go. Could let himself get fucked when he lost, making ugly sounds of pain and satisfaction, knowing Holden would have been making sounds just as thick and rough if Jer had been the one to get him down. Could say shit to Holden when Holden grabbed him, laid long stinging scratches down his back or bit him hard enough to bruise, could grunt like the animals they were and Holden didn't care, loved it, loved it all. Loved him, Jer. He really did.
And now, tonight-- he wanted pretty.
Well. Jer grinned, suddenly, to himself. Okay, then. Couldn't teach an old dog new tricks, maybe-- but he didn't forget his old ones, either.
Jer reached in the drawer beside the bed and got out the oil Holden used for lube. It was good stuff, better than what Argounov used, which just went to show-- well, there was probably some kind of proverb about what it went to show, something slightly less blunt than the fucked know better than the fuckers which lube is best. If Argounov had ever let Jer top-- well, then he wouldn't have been Argounov, would he?
This rare philosophical digression-- Yves must be contagious-- hadn't stopped Jer from making the most of his vanishing twenty minutes; he was rubbing the oil around first on his cock, then on his nipples, and finally, liberally, on his fingers. He wrapped a hand around his cock, splayed the fingers of his other hand over his chest, teasing his nipples to nubs as he stroked himself very, very gently. Too hard and he wouldn't last when his master did whatever he wanted to do, wouldn't catch his breath, responsive to every touch, every whisper; he'd be too impatient. He needed his cock awake, was all, awake and waiting, gleaming, ready, pretty. He could feel the light flush creeping across his cheeks, the gentle languor spreading through his limbs, as he waited. Pretty was a mindset. As long as he didn't have a mirror, he could stay there. As long as Holden didn't laugh when he saw him.
It didn't seem like twenty minutes-- but he wasn't watching the clock all that closely, was watching the doorway, when Holden appeared in it, dark against the light from the hallway. He closed the door behind him, looking Jer up and down with a cool, appraising eye-- appraising, and approving.
"Good," he said, and Jer smiled, suddenly, the arrogant answering smile he used to dare give Argounov, back when his skin fit just right, back when he was twenty, thirty even, the best lay his master had ever had and they both knew it even if Argounov would never say it.
Holden prowled towards the bed, taking his time, and Jer rolled over to watch him, still smiling audaciously.
"Pretty enough, master?" he asked with a show of humility-- lies, pretty lies, it wasn't even a question-- and Holden, smiling too now, narrowed his eyes and nodded, once.
"Prep yourself for me," he ordered, not needing to add make it look good, and Jer picked the lube back up, pulled up his legs, and slid a finger in, letting his eyes flutter halfway closed, his lips part like a virgin boy's, not caring how stupid it looked on a worn-out whore. Because he was watching his master's face, and it didn't look stupid, not at all. Added another finger, fucking himself slowly, breathing in, and then out, his cock and spine wide awake and sparking, his half-lidded eyes on his master's.
"Good," said Holden again.
Another finger, and as he stretched himself out he tilted his head back, baring his throat, and moaned, at Holden, a pretty, performing moan. Holden gave him back a soft, growling purr of satisfaction.
"You look," he said, in the same throaty register, "good enough to eat."
"How about good enough to fuck?" Jer drawled. Holden laughed, quietly, coming closer to the bed, and Jer's heartrate kicked into overdrive as one slender, strong hand circled his throat, the other splaying itself out between his shoulder blades, laying him gently down on his back.
"Maybe," he said, drawing his nails lightly up the length of Jer's cock. "Maybe I'll fuck my pretty boy. Or maybe not. Maybe I'd rather keep watching. Watch you keep yourself on edge for me, fuck your fist, cry and beg me to come."
"As it please my master," said Jer, and tonight that didn't mean do whatever the fuck you're going to do to me, it's not like I can stop you, and even if it also didn't quite mean-- as it probably would have on Bran's lips-- submission to my master's divine will is my highest good, it was right, the right thing to say right now. Part of the show. Such pretty words.
Holden slid the fingers of one hand into Jer's hair, the other still toying delicately with his cock.
"My pretty boy," he said, and Jer's eyes closed altogether without even thinking about it as he said, pat as a retired actor revisiting the role that had made him great, "Your boy, master, pretty-- pretty just for you."
"That's right." Holden's thumb on his nipple, kneading gently, the other hand playing down between Jer's legs, towards his slicked hole. "My pretty whore."
Jer's eyes snapped open again, and he stared up at Holden for signs of-- what? Mockery? A trap? Holden hated when Jer called himself a whore-- but he hated all this too, Jer's best performances, his hard-earned skill set, and here he was, eyes narrowed again, his fingers-- oh, Thor fucking thunder-fist-- pushing inside Jer, twisting and fucking him, probing and rubbing up against his sweet spot while the other hand fisted his hair and Holden said softly, "My beautiful whore. Say it."
"Yours," Jer gasped, "master-- master, your whore, your slut--"
"My beautiful slut," Holden insisted, and half his fingers were still in Jer's hair but the others were gone from inside him and Holden was kneeling between his legs, rubbing at his own cock with the oil.
"Master's," Jer stalled, and then, because it was all part of the game, because Holden's bizarre truth fetish was on hold and he was allowed to lie tonight, "master's-- your beautiful slut, your-- fuck!" he moaned as Holden's cock slid into him, "fuck me, master, fuck your-- your pretty fucktoy--"
"My beautiful Jer," Holden said, one emphatic drawn-out word for each long, agonizingly slow stroke of his cock inside Jer, "my love--"
"Oh, gods, master," said Jer, and it wasn't a fucking game any more if it ever had been, "yours, please, no, don't stop--" he almost screamed as the strokes slowed even further.
"My what?" Holden asked calmly.
"Your-- your-- your--" Jer tried to thrust his hips back against the maddeningly still pelvis. "Your love-- please, your beautiful, your whore, so beautiful for you, please--"
"So beautiful for me." Holden sounded so thoroughly satisfied as his thrusts picked up speed again that Jer could have laughed if he hadn't been so close to crying, or coming, one of the two, or both. Holden quit talking then, and he let Jer quit talking, too, which was a relief because all Jer could really think about was Holden's cock and his hands, the master's hands and his eyes on Jer, and that wasn't kindness or pity or even friendship in his eyes, and if he'd had to find a word for it right then... but he didn't. Just had to see.
